Title: The Sinner's Log
Summary: [—I think I'm losing my mind—].
Character(s): Stiles, Lydia
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: I'm psyched for Monday omg. Also, a lot of swearing. I'm sorry but Stiles is an angry teenage boy, this is how he speaks at the mo. Potentially AU to S3b but we'll see.

—here's the thing though; you're not a fucking princess. You are an intelligent, beautiful young lady and yet you've fallen into that femme fatale role, and you've been playing at it for years. Yeah, Erica did that too, but she had the physicality to pull it off, you know, it was fresh and wild and man I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. If I didn't want her, for a split second, but it's not like that matters anymore. There was something lost, you know? There's a piece of the whole fucking universe that I've lost because she's dead, but with you it's not like that.

I don't even think you're a part of the town I want to know anymore. You make me crazy, you drive me freaking nuts okay? Yeah I'd probably still sell my soul for a feel, but hey, I've already lost that in the name of my father so I won't have the chance to do something too delusional. You kissed me, but you didn't save my life, and I saved yours, didn't I? Can you at least admit that I've made a difference, that your life would be something else if it weren't for Stiles Stilinski's existence?

That's asking too much of you, isn't it? I don't know what to tell you anymore, to be honest. I thought I loved you, but then at this point all I know is that I love my parents, Scott and Melissa. Everyone else can get bent because I'm done. I'm so sick of everything and even though I know it's not your fault I can't help but want to blame you for every single shitty thing in my life.

Who the hell buys a girl a TV for her birthday? Besides me, of course. And, the thing is, that's not even the worst thing I've done, or said, or thought. Sometimes—I'm fucked up, okay, do you know that? I may not have tried to pull any triggers at that motel, but I threw myself on top of my gasoline-soaked love-sick idiot best friend and I don't regret it, I almost wish he'd half-succeeded in killing me.

I think about that a lot, to be honest.

I tied Scott to a radiator the first full moon. It's kind of kinky, but it's not like anyone would believe me if I went around talking about gay guys and having random shirtless unrelated men in my room. It's not like I do that, right? It's just. Fuck. I don't know who I am anymore, not even when you subtract all the supernatural bullshit that has been my life since sophomore year. I'm tired, okay, I'm fucking sick and tired of this—my dad almost died, do you see this, there have been bodies piling up in this damned town for far too long and now Scott's dad is back and everything. Everything is just. Nothing makes sense.

And I want it to. I want there to be a magic switch to flip, a kiss from a pretty girl that will make things better. I tried googling that article of yours and couldn't find anything. And that's. That's something else, Lydia. What do you want from me, at this point? Am I still just some dork following you around trying too hard, or do I actually have some merit? You're the most intelligent woman (person, okay, let's be honest here) that I will ever meet but the ways you make me feel like an idiot have less to do with this and more to do with just how nasty you are to anyone who tries to give a damn.

Tell me, did you really love Jackson? Because he loved you. Loves? I don't know, I've still got that restraining order against me and let me tell you, that does in fact suggest the man wants no contact of any kind with you. I mean. Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying here and I doubt I ever will. I'm laughing and I'm crazy and I'm so lost, I don't know what to say or think or even be anymore.

My name is Stiles Stilinski and you, you're Lydia Martin and you have hated me since the day we met. We were kids and even then you managed to zero in on the most pathetic thing in the school and scoff, and label me and destroy me and you never fucking stopped it just kept going and going and going—

I can't breathe, okay, and kissing you isn't going to help. It did because it redirected my attention once but if Scott were to try and pull that shit I'd probably punch him the mouth. Ditto for anyone else who tries, too. This isn't me telling you I love you, or that I loved you, or that I think you and I are meant to be or anything else that might have slipped out of my head before all this werewolf-business went down. We're not kids, anymore, you know that? It would be nice to be, hell, I'll admit that.

I'd kill for it. Because, yeah, I do sometimes just want to run home to mommy. But my mother is dead, Lydia, and I was twelve years old and she was six feet under and even when everyone else was at least pretending they cared you didn't even bother. And that's. It's not that I want your attention anymore, at least, I'd like to think I don't, it's that, I mean, what kind of person does that? Jackson didn't apologize, mind you, but considering he'd been making a living hell out of my life since the beginning of sixth grade he did in fact lay off for an entire month.

Not that a month is long enough to forget about the woman who helped raise you, of course, but still. I suppose it's the thought that counts, in that. I'm getting off topic though, this isn't me crying about not having a mother. Or even failing my father although let me tell you I could go on about that for hours. I know your parents have problems, and I know you try to brush it off, but hell Lydia, at least your social standing and academic record isn't as utterly fucked the way mine is.

And I'm coming off as jealous and I'm not trying to, I swear. I just. Do you realize how lucky you are? I don't want your life—and not just because the thought of sex with Jackson makes me want to castrate myself. You've managed to salvage something out of nothing and me, I have some soul-consuming thing around my heart that's going to spell the end of Beacon Hills. Because of course, that's my luck. There isn't really anything for me to say to you. Not right now, not ever. I'm not entirely sure where I was going with this, if I'm being honest. I want to tell you a lot of things, sometimes, and then other times I just lose all the words. You're beautiful. You're intelligent, you're ruthless, and. And you can be so kind, too. Just never when someone's looking. I don't know you at all, and yet. I don't hate you, but I don't love you, but I don't like you, but I do.

Just. You could be so much more, if you could just get away from the craziness that keeps haunting us all. Maybe I want to be you, a little bit, because you always manage to come back stronger from all the bullshit of the last year and before and I feel a little bit like I'm falling. I'm falling down a hole with no bottom, I'm going to fly right off the earth, and there's nothing anyone could do, because I failed everyone in the long-run, didn't I? I couldn't help you when you needed it—hell, I couldn't be a good friend to you when you needed it. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I failed you like that, because regardless of our friendship or relationship or whatever you want to call it, that's not how a decent human being treats another person. I'm. I'm lost right now and there's no one else to talk to.

This isn't. Working. I. Fuck.

I'm sitting in my room writing a letter that will never be sent and there is a darkness in my soul and all I can see is Jennifer's face and blood and your screams Lydia where did you learn to scream like that Peter's threats his breath on my wrist you covered in blood naked good God what a miracle I didn't react the way everyone would expect me to do you know me do you want to how do you even live like this I think I'm losing my mind what makes you go on and make sense of everything is this a normal thing for everyone else or am I the only one struggling is this hopeless FUCK

I'm sorry. Maybe it's best if I just stay away from now on.

.